


the things that we fight for

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Facing death and reconciling life, Introspection, Race and Racism, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip AM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24562399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When he died for their rightful king, then, would they finally see him as human?Dedue knows the answer.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10
Collections: Anonymous





	the things that we fight for

For Dedue, this is how it will end: a terrible, jagged lance thrust through his ruined breastplate, heartblood spilling over a field of wildflowers and clover.

In the thickest, dustiest books of Fódlan legend, scribes took ink to paper to tell of great, mighty heroes faced with many battles, both material and within themselves. Often, they wrote that when a hero nearly died, they saw their entire life flash before their eyes in an instant. They recalled moments of serenity and love, yes, but more often than not, moments of deep regret. Decisions and harsh words that may very well have pushed those foolish heroes to their uncertain fate.

The heroes always correct course. They always seek justice and make amends, for they know that haunting moment to be a clear message from the Fódlan Goddess herself. It is not a suggestion, but a divine imperative. But then, does the Goddess also send that same message to heroes who do die, or does she simply know which will live to see another day? Does she speak only to those who will have a chance to change their ways?

There are few tomes that write about what happens when a person does truly die. And of course, they are not penned by the souls who perished, so it cannot be known what they see in those last moments. Perhaps they see the same. Perhaps they, too, are chilled to the bone by their mistakes but are given no chance to right those wrongs. They, too, are given all the answers, but only a moment too late.

_That_ would be cruel. And so, it seems unlikely.

Dedue sees no such visions of his life, and so, he knows that his fate is sealed.

The weight of his steel plate rests far too heavy on his chest. Metal crushes down, dull and numbing save for the searing laceration on his abdomen. Dedue knows not how long it will take, but he must hope that death will spare him the delirium of infection. No, it will come far sooner than that. It must.

With cold, clumsy fingertips, he tears a dandelion from the earth and manages to bring it to his chest. A proper burial, it is not. It should be no surprise that the Kingdom’s paladins - knights he once shared a hall with - left him for dead, and yet...

It is nearly laughable to think that in the back of his mind, Dedue always imagined some modicum of dignity in his own death. Tradition, no. Dedue never expected to be laid to rest according to Duscuran tradition, though Dimitri had asked, and often. In the Kingdom, such a thing is codified. In the Kingdom, a knight’s weapon is given to his or her next of kin.

In truth, Dedue had many reasons for why he never told his liege of their traditions. In hindsight, none of them were good reasons.

Dedue will die too young, and his death will be a slow, solitary thing. No sons or daughters would ever gather at his pyre, scarlet flames burning high enough to send his soul to the nine gods, then back again. None of his family would live to scatter his ashes into the frigid Duscur waves.

Dedue clutches the bloom close, no doubt crushing its stem in his unsteady grasp. Its sweet, floral scent is nearly lost among blood and bile, but it is there. It must be there. In his last moments, Dedue still tries to search for a glimpse of this world’s beauty.

He thinks of his mother, nearly faceless now with time's cruel, cloudy lens.

He thinks of his father, a stronger and better man than he grew to be. 

He thinks of his sister, and his little brother, who never grew to be anything at all. 

After the Tragedy, so many of his own kin chose to bemoan the ugliness of this world. The chaos, the injustice - the bitterness of it all. They shouted, and they fought, and they cried for a new rebellion, for all they could see was the ugliness, and yes, it was there. But their anger did not help, it only let Fódlaners feel righteous in their faulty convictions.

So Dedue sought beauty instead. He knelt, he served, he learned their tongue, that they might see him as more than a Duscuran, and learn the error of their ways. Where rebellious Duscurans at the border were rowdy and savage, he would be calm, measured. They didn’t know how to govern themselves, Fódlaners explained, they could hardly accept the Kingdom’s generous donations of grain without ambushing the caravans! Duscurans were disloyal, dishonest, king-killing bastards. Everyone knew it.

In defiance, Dedue would live his life to the very peak of virtue to atone for his people’s supposed sin. He would prove to the Kingdom that Duscurans were simply people, like any other. He would be careful, he would be attentive, he would never show a hint of the rage they expected from a man ‘of his kind’.

And not a damn bit of it would ever matter.

When he died for their rightful king, then, would they finally see him as human?

Dedue knows the answer. He knows now that the Goddess is cruel, for he will die feeling regret souring in his stomach.

Warmth pools around his wounds. Healing magic, not the slow embrace of death. Bright energy courses through his veins, replenishing his vitality. The pain, too, comes flooding back, but that is no fault of the healer. Dedue musters the strength to look up to his savior, a mounted warrior holding a sphere of radiant light in one hand and a gleaming steel shield in the other.

"Wake up, brother. You live to fight another day."

He is a man of Duscur. Dedue knows it by the strong, protective glyphs carved into his shield and the ivory harpoon strapped to his back. He knows it by the cut of his jaw and the fire in his eyes. The leatherwork on his saddlebags, and the vibrant teal dyes pressed into his cloak. 

Alongside him rides a woman, eyes the color of the icy northern sea in storm. Rounded, opalescent bits of shell are woven into her hair. Her crown shifts in the light as she looks down at Dedue. She reminds him of his mother - in spirit if not in her features. Perhaps that is why her firm, expectant gaze presses Dedue to try to push himself up from the earth, ignoring the deep ache in his bones.

Were he any wearier, or any more dizzied from blood loss, Dedue might think them among the nine Duscuran gods. Perhaps they are not, but in this moment, when the late sun halos their forms, when they look every bit the judges of his own feeble mortality - _divinity_ is the only word that feels right on his tongue. 

The man offers him a hand.

“...Why?” Dedue croaks.

“We look after our own.” He says, simply. As though Dedue were one of them in truth, not a traitor in his complacency. 

“For Duscur.” The woman adds. She turns her horse with little more than a parting nod. 

“We are far from the islands. Duscur is no more, burnt to ash.” Dedue rasps. He cannot explain why the words tumble from his lips, why desperation seeps into his tone. But he looks to them for answers, for a raft in the high currents.

The man snorts. “Duscur is on the back of my horse, brother. You coming along or not?”

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of feelings, and making sense of them.
> 
> Feel free to post donation links or petitions in the comments. There's plenty of lists circulating on twitter, but I don't have an updated version, and I know some funds have stopped taking donations.


End file.
